


A Drop of Canon Era

by Sunfreckle



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-01-30 05:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: I do not write canon era often, but when I do, I make it as happy and hopeful as Ipossiblycan.A collection of ficlets including - but not limited to - "the kind of ExR where they barely touch and it is Enough", "friendship the Courfeyrac way" and "a bed full of J/B/M+R".
Relationships: Bahorel/Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre & Courfeyrac & Enjolras (Les Misérables), Combeferre/Enjolras (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Grantaire & Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire/Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 21
Kudos: 81





	1. To Accompany a Courfeyrac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Triumvirate tipsy friendship kiss.

“It was such a fine hat,” Courfeyrac sighed mournfully. He stopped in the middle of the street, making Combeferre – whose arm was linked with his – halt likewise. “By no means my favourite, but a fine hat all the same and I _cannot_ find out where I might have lost it.”

“As is usually the case with an object that is lost,” Combeferre said philosophically,trying to get his friend to keep walking. Courfeyrac had had one too many glasses of wine this evening and Combeferre sincerely doubted he would get home at all if he was not brought all the way to his door. Not because he was so inebriated he would not find his way, but because he was in that particular state of mind where a man might be led astray by even the slightest distraction, and pursue it until daybreak.

“You are not,” said Courfeyrac severely, “very concerned about my hat.”

It was a hefty accusation, spoken in tones of sober emotion, and it made Combeferre smile as well as turn his eyes heavenward. “I am more concerned with yourself,”he replied.

Courfeyrac seemed at least partially charmed by this, but before he could reply, a familiar voice called out to them from down the street.

Both men turned around and as the voice had announced, saw Enjolras hurrying towards them. Despite the late hour, he had clearly come directly from his place of work, a parcel of new publications tucked under his arm. In his other hand, however, he held a most familiar shape.

“I do believe, Courfeyrac, that this is yours,” said Enjolras, sounding a little short of breath. “I am glad I was in time to catch you.”

Combeferre was about to observe that considering when they had left the Corinthe, they should have been far beyond Enjolras’ reach by this time, but he did not have the opportunity. This because Courfeyrac let go of Combeferre’s arm in favour of reaching for Enjolras and exclaiming:

“My _dear_ friend! See here, Combeferre, Enjolras has my hat!”

There was no opportunity to respond to this either, because – to Combeferre’sconsiderable amusement and Enjolras’ even greater confusion – Courfeyrac chose to express his gratitude and affection by reaching up to grab Enjolras’ face and kiss him soundly on the lips.

“You are a sartorial hero,” he announced feelingly, promptly taking Combeferre’s arm again and attempting to link his other arm with Enjolras’. “Do accompany us wherever it is we are going. Combeferre was just saying some very pretty things,although I have sadly forgotten what exactly they were.”

“I—Yes,” Enjolras replied, allowing himself to be pulled along a pace or two before falling into step with his friends. “That is, where is it that we are going?”

“Home,” Combeferre assured him smilingly. “If only we can manage it.”

“Ah, good,” Enjolras agreed, looking somewhat relieved, and the three of them continued down the street, making a very charming party.


	2. In which Bahorel may be a werewolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan/Bahorel established relationship.
> 
> For Deb <3

Jehan Prouvaire’s chambers were in a house a great deal better suited to disorder than regularity.

Mme Duval’s husband had been an artist and after his loss the good lady had filled her spare rooms with young men of the same persuasion. Jehan liked living there exceedingly. Here there would be no complaints about his playing the flute, nor would his necessary outbursts of emotion following a new publication be questioned.

Truly, Mme Duval was a most agreeable landlady, but recently – and it had been a very recent change indeed – Jehan did fear he would end up incurring her disapproval after all.

“Madame shall begin to think I will eat her out of house and home,” he shook his head, sitting down at the table opposite Bahorel.

“We must give our landladies _something_ to scold about, it is good for their circulation,” Bahorel opined as he gleefully continued to work his way through an astounding amount of roast beef.

Jehan watched him with honest fascination. Bahorel was capable of eating like a beast while still looking every inch the gentleman. Not a stain on his collar or cravat, but such violence in the movements of both teeth and cutlery.

“You are staring, my lovely Prouvaire,” Bahorel pointed out in between mouthfuls.

“Only because you are savage when you eat,” Jehan declared, rising up from his seat again to move around the room in absence of any real occupation. An abundance of feelings always made him restless, if he could not write them away he must move.

“Is that so?” Bahorel grinned, swallowing the last bite. “And here I have not even arrived at dessert yet.”

Jehan flushed, but danced out of the way of his grabbing hands even so. “You will not be kissing me with that mouth, Monsieur.”

Bahorel sighed his disappointment as his grasping fingers just missed the edge of Jehan’s unbuttoned vest and he was forced to rock forward once more to prevent his chair from toppling backwards. In anticipation of the declaration of wounded feelings that Bahorel was already opening his mouth for to deliver, Jehan darted up beside him, reaching out to scratch Bahorel under his chin, through the coarse hair of his beard.

“Villain,” Bahorel muttered, leaning into Jehan’s touch far enough to halfway slump across the table.

“Brute,” Jehan replied lovingly.

.

Later, with his face cleaned up and his mouth tasting of wine instead of red meat, Bahorel had more success begging for a kiss. But Jehan principally occupied himself with running his hands through Bahorel’s hair, disposing of the velvet bow that kept it tied back as soon as he possibly could. Bahorel let him, not even complaining of his crushed collar, and wholly relaxed in Jehan’s arms.

There was the principle reason that Jehan very willingly risked his landlady’s disgruntlement, there was no time that Bahorel was so disposed to be calm and pliant as just after he had had a great deal of good food.


	3. Loyalty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: Grantaire is forced to betray his loyalty to Enjolras.

“Only Grantaire remaining, and then we are complete,” Feuilly pointed out.

Bossuet turned around on his chair, prevented from rising by Joly’s hands still resting on his shoulders. “He came in right behind us,” he said, looking about him in surprise. “I am sure he did.”

“I will find him,” Enjolras replied, before anyone else could. It was no surprise to him that Grantaire found something to distract him on the way to the back room. Even if it was the Corinth that Grantaire considered his domain in particular, he was equally sure of finding familiar faces among the drinkers at the Musain, any of which might have detained him. Their meetings were certainly not so interesting to Grantaire that he could not be distracted from them.

As Enjolras emerged from the backroom in search of him, he found that he merely had to walk to the corner from which there seemed to originate the greatest amount of noise. Several men were talking at once and yet Enjolras could hear Grantaire’s voice above all of them. It was impossible to tell if these were his friends or complete strangers to him, neither the familiarity of his address or his quarrelling tone would give Enjolras any hint, but it was not important. He would ask Grantaire to come with him just once and if he chose not to, he would leave him to his talk.

Enjolras lips had already parted to speak, his hand already outstretched towards Grantaire’s shoulder, when he finally heard his words instead of just his voice. And Grantaire’s words were less drunken and more indignant than Enjolras had ever heard them.

“—so if you wish to mock him, _by all means_, but know that you are mocking yourselves. For he will fight for you, even if you have proved yourselves not worth fighting for. You are his people and he will see you free and equal or he will see himself vanquished.”

As Grantaire’s voice grew harsher the others lost their fire and yet he continued:

“And I, who am the worst of you, the worst of you _all_, will not even sink so low as to pretend to have the strength to doubt him. I do not. And it gives me leave to despise all of you to your face, because I need only to believe in Enjolras, as he will insist on believing in all of you.”

To this speech there followed a silence, unbroken by further argument, laughter or even the general sound of discomfort. There was merely silence, and Enjolras, feeling as though a shadow had been lifted from a distant corner of his mind, broke it.

“Grantaire,” he spoke clearly and for a moment every pair of eyes seemed upon him. Grantaire stared with the rest of them, his expression shifting from the first colour of surprise to the pallor of dread. So Enjolras smiled, and did his best to place the rest of his appreciation in his words:

“You are wanted, at the meeting.”


	4. Clandestine Experiments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A challenge to turn the prompt "Enjolras catches Combeferre redhanded, covered in blood" into something fluffy.
> 
> Enjolras/Combeferre
> 
> Content warning: blood.

“I _seem_ to remember,” said Enjolras with pointed emphasis, “that part of our arrangement was that if _I_ refrained from ‘littering our rooms with disturbing publications’, _you_ would leave your medical experiment _at the university_.”

Combeferre looked appropriately apologetic. He was standing in the dimly lit room, much like a cat caught in the kitchen by a housekeeper, and with the proof of his guilt splattered all over his shirtsleeves. Enjolras had absolutely no desire to know what it was, but it was self-evident that it had once been contained in the vial Combeferre was holding. It smelled suspiciously like blood.

“What _were_ you doing?” Enjolras inquired, lifting the candle he brought from the bedroom in an effort to make out the full extent of the damage. Luckily Combeferre didn’t seem hurt.

“Merely putting something aside,” he muttered. “As you were already asleep…”

“I see,” Enjolras nodded. “I shall remember to add ‘to prevent you from ending up covered in blood’ to my list of viable responses for whenever you attempt to lecture me on not taking enough rest.” He met Combeferre’s eyes, taking in his somewhat ruffled expression and could not quite repress a smile. “Stay where you are,” he ordered fondly and walked back to the bedroom to fetch the water pitcher and basin from the dresser.

When he returned, he found Combeferre had wrapped the dirty vial in his handkerchief and laid it aside on the table. Enjolras placed both candle and washbasin beside it filling the basin with the pitcher so Combeferre could wash the worst of the blood off his hands.

“Mind you don’t drip on me,” Enjolras warned him and Combeferre obediently dabbed his hands mostly dry on the crumpled handkerchief.

“Now come here, let me help. Before you get…whatever that was all over your clothes.”

Combeferre smiled slightly as Enjolras began to loosen his cravat, but Enjolras made a point of not noticing. He put the cravat safely aside and then unbuttoned Combeferre’s waistcoat, walking around him to lift it carefully off his shoulders and down his arms, in such a way that it would not touch the dark splotches on his sleeves. He draped the waistcoat over a chair, watching Combeferre loosen his bloodied cuffs with fond exasperation.

“However are you going to explain this to the Mme Bisset,” Enjolras said amusedly, drawing near again to help Combeferre out of his soiled shirt. He took care not to dirty his hands and as soon as he was able to pull the shirt off Combeferre’s back he rolled it up so that it could be put away without a danger of leaving any disgusting stains on the furniture.

“I am sure she has long given up on the idea of either of us being respectable young men, Enjolras,” Combeferre replied distractedly. He looked up at him, suddenly smiling, and leaning towards him a little. “I had not thanked you yet,” he said. “For coming to my rescue.”

“Now there’s an idea you had better give up on,” Enjolras said resolutely, stepping out of Combeferre’s reach. “I will _not_ be kissing you as long as you smell like a medical experiment.”

“Well that is cruel of you,” Combeferre said solemnly. “But I understand.”

Enjolras gave him a long look and then, without saying word, turned around and left the room.

Combeferre let out a fond sound of protest. “Where are you going?”

“To fetch you some soap.”


	5. The Potential of a Jehan Prouvaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jehan & Grantaire friendship and as much ExR as my canon era allows~

Grantaire was in an uncomfortable position. Jehan Prouvaire was unhappy. Not the deep, wounded feeling of wilful despair he occasionally so delighted in indulging either. It was a mundane, grey lowness and most uncharacteristic for the young poet. It made Grantaire put down his tankard and for a while he spoke loud nonsense in a rather bad attempt at offering some distraction.

Prouvaire listened to him with very little response and at length Grantaire cleared his throat and said:

“You must not look at me like that, Prouvaire. My boxing days are behind me, you know, you cannot make me offer to fight whoever brought you in such a state.”

“I would not have you fight anyone,” Prouvaire answered gravely. “And there is nothing to fight but my own apathy.”

_Apathy_. Prouvaire spoke the word as if it at once stung and humiliated him and Grantaire could not think of a single word in whatever language he spoke that should be more foreign to his friend than this one. He had no reply to this.

Prouvaire gave him a sullen look and hunched himself forward over the table. “Now what,” he muttered. “You can’t talk me into feeling again, can you.”

Grantaire was quite convinced he could. Some feelings at any rate. Negative ones most probably. But he said nothing. And the longer he said nothing the less sullen Prouvaire’s expression grew, until it was a great deal softer than before and Grantaire thought he might try to say one thing.

“There is no telling the nature of _some_ things,” he finally broke his silence. “But surely, the potential of a Jehan Prouvaire shall always be to feel. Whatever might temporarily prevent the motion to actuality, such capacity cannot be removed, lest the entire causality of natural existence be uprooted with it.” There he had done, because Prouvaire was right, words could do very little here.

Very slowly, a thin ghost of a smile passed across Prouvaire’s pale face. For a moment his lips moved as if he would offer a reply, then he simply nodded and after another silent moment he got to his feet. A short squeeze of Grantaire’s shoulder was all he gave by way of response and Grantaire was not at all sure how helpful his actions had been. At least he did not seem to have made Prouvaire’s mood worse.

It was not a sound from behind the door Prouvaire just passed through, but the quiet step of a boot behind him, that startled Grantaire from his thoughts. To his dismay – and delight, there must always be delight – Enjolras was standing in the doorway, evidently having come through the narrow passage that led to the storage rooms. His footsteps were so measured that he seemed to move without walking, the greyish light that filtered through the window promptly turning to gold on the coils of his hair. His eyes, as he approached, were fixed quietly on Grantaire with a much too attentive look.

“I see,” Grantaire spoke defensively. “That this day will consist of one person after another staring at me in an incomprehensible manner.

Enjolras made no reply to that, but looked towards where Prouvaire had disappeared to.

“Jehan has been very low the past few days,” he said seriously.

Grantaire felt a pang. “Well,” he said soberly. “Then I cannot have done too much damage.”

“Quite the opposite,” Enjolras said, drawn up to his full height as he was standing beside Grantaire’s chair, making him involuntarily look up at him.

“You are harsh,” Grantaire grimaced, looking away. “I assure you I mean to do harm to no one, except perhaps Aristoteles.”

“That is not what I meant,” Enjolras voice contradicted softly from above and before Grantaire could react, a gentle touch on either of his temples took all capability of speech from him.

Gently Enjolras directed Grantaire’s head slightly upwards again, tilting it so that when he leant forward, he was able to just touch his lips to Grantaire’s brow.

It was barely a kiss, which left only the essence of it, and Grantaire’s skin burned.

“It was well done, Grantaire,” Enjolras said softly, releasing Grantaire. “Well done.”

And with that he left the room, leaving Grantaire with his lips and fingertips still lingering on his skin and the grey sunlight still golden.


	6. Mutual Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by some wonderful art by Débora Cabral, for rare pairs week.
> 
> J/B/M/R <3

To wake up in somewhat unfamiliar surroundings was certainly no novelty to Grantaire. To have it be one this warm and this comfortable slightly more so. At his first attempt to sit upright he found himself impeded by the warm weight of a sleeping form pressing against him from either side.

The reality of the preceding night returned to Grantaire as soon as he confirmed that his left arm was trapped under the body of his friend Joly and that the soft cheek pressed against his right belonged to none other than Musichetta.

This was such an extraordinary source of contentment that it had to turn to irony on Grantaire’s lips.

“What calamity,” he said. “To believe oneself a free man and then to wake up this ensnared.”

Joly responded to this with nothing but the vague protests of the recently awoken, but on Grantiare’s other side Musichetta stirred and spoke:

“Oh do hush.”

Grantaire could not fight back the smile that spread fondly over his features, but even so he replied:

“Am I to have my freedom of speech curtailed as well as my freedom of movement?”

“If ever there was a freedom abused,” Musichetta muttered and she turned herself around so that she was no longer leaning against Grantaire. Which was exactly what his words had made believe to be what he wanted, but what was of course precisely what he did not want.

“Your mistress is taciturn, joli Joly,” he said mournfully. “She took no offence to my speeches last night.”

“The subject of your speeches was more agreeable then,” Joly informed him with a yawn, moving only just enough for Grantaire to free his arm. “And so was your punctuation.”

Grantaire grinned, leaning over his friend. “That is easily fixed, however,” he said and he ended the sentence with a kiss to Joly’s temple.

Joly had not yet fully opened his eyes, but he smiled, saying: “Address your amends to the lady. She is much less disposed to put up with you, and might not invite you back again.”

“Cruel threats,” Grantaire muttered woundedly and he turned to his other side, where Musichetta had buried her face resolutely in one of the pillows.

“How shall I ask for forgiveness?” he sighed and Musichetta muttered into the down and cotton:

“Leave me to my sleep.”

But Grantaire could never lay down again once he had woken, and he could not possibly stay in this bed flanked only by sleeping silence. To leave it was of course wholly out of the question, so Grantaire instead opted to ghost coaxing kisses against Musichetta’s cheek and to gently scratch at the short curls at the nape of her neck until she could no longer hide her smiles in the pillow.

Instead she lifted up her head just a little, allowing Grantaire to press a kiss against the curve of her neck. As soon as his lips touched to her skin, she hummed pleasantly.

“The sounds of forgiveness,” Joly said amusedly, slowly reaching towards the bedside table and feeling around for his spectacles.

Grantaire smiled down at Musichetta, looking particularly lovely in only a chemise instead of the usual layer upon layer of dress. She rolled onto her back, but still unwilling to rise she held out her hand, reaching partway across Grantaire’s lap.

“Kindly hand me my Joly” she requested, playfulness taking the place of drowsiness in her voice.

“By all means, make me into a rude mechanical, playing at being the wall between Pyramus and Thisby,” Grantaire shook his head, but he readily reached out for Joly’s hand and put it into Musichetta’s.

Their clasped hands lay in his lap for a moment, each smilingly squeezing the other’s fingers, before they both reached up as one and attempted to pull Grantaire back down and out of his sitting position.

“_Paltry_ tricks,” Grantaire protested, batting their hands away as they attempted to grab at his shoulders. “Now I see why Bossuet assigned me to the middle of the bed!”

Neither Musichetta nor Joly were used to an opponent of Grantaire’s strength, however, and it was nog long before Grantaire got his way and they were all three of them sitting upright in bed, allowing him to comfortably wrap an around both of them.

“I shall catch cold,” Joly complained, tugging on the collar of his nightshirt as the blanket slid off him.

“You shall do no such thing,” Musichetta scolded gently, leaning in front of Grantaire to tuck the blanket around Joly alone.

“_You_ shall catch cold,” he protested.

“Not to worry,” Grantaire grinned. “I am surprisingly skilful in keeping other men’s mistresses comfortable.”

Musichetta allowed him to pull her closer to his side, but she turned his face towards him with a rather exasperated expression. “Grantaire,” she said fondly. “Need I repeat myself? Hush.”

And as she followed this speech with a firm and slightly scolding kiss, Grantaire _did_ hush. To the great amusement of Joly, who had managed to free an arm out of the tangled blanket keeping him warm, and had taken up the book he had dropped by the side of the bed the evening before. It had been abandoned when an opportunity for a different kind of entertainment arose.

“There,” Musichetta said, releasing Grantaire’s face and leaning comfortably against his side. “That is a good deal better.”

“I will beg you again to come with us to meetings,” Joly said amusedly. “Your skills would be _invaluable_.”

Musichetta laughed and Grantaire grumbled slightly. “Wherever is Bossuet,” he finally asked, looking about him. He had halfway expected the man to emerge from Joly’s sitting room, but it was quite silent on the other side of the door.

“He rose shortly before you woke,” Musichetta replied, putting another pillow between her back and the headboard.

“Ah so I was not the disturber of you sleep after all,” Grantaire teased.

“The disturber of my peace you were,” she retorted. “But as you were also the improver of my evening, you may be forgiven.”

Grantaire grinned at this and Joly glanced up from his book amusedly.

“Now let’s not start the review of the evening before our most eloquent critic is here.”

With a very obliging attention to timing the cheerful sound of Bossuet’s tuneless singing drifted in from the direction of the hallway as soon as he said that.

Grantaire was already smiling when he came through the door, so he was forced to exclaim to properly express his contentment. “And so our quartet is complete again.”

“And you brought _breakfast_,” Musichetta sighed delightedly. “Come here so I may kiss you for it.”

Bossuet happily obliged, somehow contriving to dip a sleeve into one of the bowls of hot chocolate he was carrying on a tray.

“Tell me it is not too ruined,” Bossuet told Grantaire, who had taken the tray while Musichetta hastily stripped Bossuet of his shirt, Joly concernedly enquiring if he had not burned his skin. “It was hard enough to charm four helpings out of Joly’s disapproving concierge.”

Bossuet’s twinkling eyes met Grantaire’s as soon as he was free of his shirt and he grinned.

“I did not tell her the fourth was for _you_, however. I am not at all sure she would have given me anything if I had.”

“Oh she does make a fuss,” Musichetta said dismissively, letting the shirt slide to the floor and reaching towards the tray that Grantaire was now balancing on his lap.

“Let me look, Bossuet,” Joly requested and Bossuet dutifully showed him his arm, assuring him there wasn’t a blemish to be seen.

With his three companions arranged as they were, there was no room for Bossuet to lean against the headboard, so he lounged at the foot of the bed instead.

“Our dear Lesgle is as graceful in rest as he is in flight,” Grantaire remarked, handing Bossuet his bowl of cocoa. “Do tell us how you escaped the infamous concierge with these spoils.” Grantaire might be fond of the sound of his own voice, but this by no means meant he did not appreciate the tales of his friends.

“Long and perilous the way…” Bossuet drawled comically, supporting the bowl with one hand and his head with the other.

Grantaire grinned at him and Musichetta hummed into her bowl. “And littered with judgemental old women,” she supplied.

Making an amused sound in response Grantaire took up a pastry and offered it to Joly, who put aside his book to take it.

The bed was comfortably crowded now and completely filled with affection and Grantaire drank in his contentment together with his cocoa. He glanced round at his companions, all filled with last night’s satisfaction and this morning’s pleasantness and softly nudged Bossuet with his foot.

“Very unwise of you, to supply this already far too comfortable situation with food,” he said, shifting slightly to allow Musichetta to lean against him more comfortably. “I might be inclined to never leave this bed again.”

And with a synchronicity born from mutual affection and perfected by habit, Grantaire received the same smug response, from three different directions:

“Good.” 


	7. Behind the Ploughshare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some rural happiness, written in defiance of Barricade Day.

Nature was splendid. Jehan felt obligated to feel at least a little pain on behalf of the long grass scythed short and the living earth ploughed to furrows. But there was beauty in the crafted scenery of farmland – where man and nature had come to a carefully bargained compromise – as well as in the wild abandon of unchecked creation.

Looking around he could no longer see all of his friends. Possibly some of them were inside one of the farm buildings. Judging from the riotous laughter behind one of the hedgerows Courfeyrac and Bahorel at least had wandered off for a walk. Enjolras and Combeferre were still in view, however. Standing by the gate and gesturing at the land, speaking on the agricultural with the same intensity as they discussed the political. Though perhaps, Jehan considered smilingly, with not quite as much expertise.

He looked around for Grantaire, who had been deep in talk with Feuilly a moment ago. But instead of walking the path by the paddock in conversation, Grantaire was now seated underneath a tree. A venerable old oak that had been allowed to stay on its chosen spot, no doubt by virtue of its ancient roots being far too troublesome to remove. Feuilly’s coat was lying beside him in the grass, but the man himself was nowhere to be seen. As this left Grantaire without company, it was not very surprising that he was looking less than content and Jehan readily walked towards him to be the remedy of his temporary solitude.

When he approached him, however, his manner was by no means melancholy. Grantaire was leaning back comfortably against the support of the tree, looking more at ease with his head resting against the rough bark and the sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up than Jehan had often had the privilege of seeing him. At the very least while sober. He was looking at Enjolras though, and with an odd sort of look that made Jehan speak up:

“I have never seen a man so at ease manage such a conflicted expression.”

Grantaire lifted his head to look up at him, the corners of his mouth curving up also. “It is quite possible to be hedonistic ad masochistic at once, my dear Prouvaire.”

“Ah, but this is not your usual brand of hedonism,” Jehan said lightly, sitting down beside him in the grass. He did not miss the city with its smoke and grey stone. No doubt he would soon, the heart must be allowed to yearn for what it cannot have immediately within reach, but not yet.

“True,” Grantaire admitted with a nod. “And painfully true, too, because this is a much truer hedonism than my usual style of indulgence.”

Jehan laughed softly at this and was nearly ready with a reply, but Grantaire was not done. He extended his hand upward, in an appreciative wave at the crown of leaves above their heads, and continued philosophically:

“We are sheltered under a tree— and I suppose that oak will do as well as olive.” His gaze lowered fondly to the fields around them. “We have company, of the most superior kind. Provided they have not gotten themselves lost in the wilderness of the southern countryside.”

Jehan smiled, tracing absent-minded patterns on the rough root that was offering him support on his right side.

“And,” Grantaire added fondly. “I daresay we shall have food and drink once our scholars have argued the land into providing some.”

“They might make more progress with your assistance,” Jehan smiled. “You know a great deal more about farming than I had any notion of.”

Grantaire gave a good-natured scoff and shook his head. “I have just enough knowledge to be disappointingly bad at a great number of things.”

“I’m sure,” Jehan said, stretching his legs out comfortably. “And I am sure you will keep up your pretence of ignorance for the full duration of about sixteen paces.”

“Paces?” Grantaire laughed. “Oh yes, very good. I am glad to hear you have seen fit to extend your poetic licence for use in the country. But please, explain to me exactly how you plan to translate the hours of the day to the dancing of the divine Horae. Do their steps equate to minutes, or is it seconds you are counting?”

“Neither,” Jehan replied amusedly. “I did not mean to invoke the classics. I was merely referring to the number of paces Enjolras was still removed from us when he first started towards us. No doubt to ask you for your opinion, which he seems to have been making into a habit of late.”

Grantaire, startled as he was, had no time to reply to that last bit of wit, because by that time Enjolras had reached them. Looking as determined as ever, but with his fair face so free of troubles as Jehan had rarely seen it. He smiled – both at the friend approaching and the friend sitting beside him, Grantaire’s posture suddenly all attention – and sat back in quiet enjoyment. Nature, human nature included, truly was splendid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here endeth the canon era~
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
